I am collecting ghosts.
Favorite cat was by the porcelain goose on the top
shelf near The Bumper Book, the book that holds
the ghost of my toddler self. I walked by and
smiled that smile that goes inside to me
and not out to the world. Another day, one was
in the bathroom sitting by the Italian sun bust— right
where she sat for my favorite picture of her—white
Feather-fluff, tail wrapped around her toes.
She seems porcelain now too.
on my elbow tonight—even turned to address my man
but there was no one there.
Another message from an unknown sender.
Mama lives in my laptop, the place
she’d love most if she were still alive.
I’d show her all the tricks and she’d have the
Web mastered in no time, like she mastered
dealing cards, then Business, and quilting, calligraphy,
the art of love, and anything else she put her mind to.
She had no master.
Of course not. I am her daughter, the one who cried
in fear of shadows in my bedroom late at night and
nestled against her breast as she held me close—
never-ever saying that I did not
see what I saw.
MLydiaM ~ May 2012
Written for Critique and Craft—Stream-of-Consciousness Writing at dVerse Poets.